Kate White - Hush

“Are there any questions?” she asked.

“Not at the moment,” Levin said. He gestured toward a stack of papers in front of her. “Is that the hard copy of your presentation?”

“Yes. I have a batch of copies.”

“Why don’t we take a look at those later and digest what you’ve done. Then we’ll get back to you with our thoughts.”

“Um, okay,” she said awkwardly. “I’ll pass them out.”

The next few minutes were nearly unbearable. People collected the hard copies and left silently, with just Perkins muttering a thank-you. Steve refused to catch her eye. The last person to leave was Levin, and when Lake turned and saw him hanging by the doorway, her stomach knotted. What’s he thinking? she wondered desperately.

“Do you need any assistance?” he asked. His words were polite but his tone was without any warmth.

“No-I’m set, thank you,” Lake said.

“All right, then,” Levin said and then walked out of the room.

She unplugged her computer and stuffed her things haphazardly into her tote bag. She wanted to run out of the clinic, but she knew she had to do her best to seem nonchalant. As she passed by the desk of the receptionist, the girl stared hard at her without saying a word.

Lake didn’t give herself a chance to think about the presentation until she was safely out the door and halfway down the block, hurrying to the parking garage. Something was definitely wrong. From her perspective the presentation had gone decently enough-her strategies were hardly brilliant, but, as she’d decided last night, they were more than adequate. So it was bizarre that no one, especially Levin, had made a single comment. She’d been dismissed, practically rushed out. Why? If Levin was in any way connected to Keaton’s murder and sensed she knew something, he might have initially wanted her around, to keep an eye on her. But if he’d been recently told by Brie she was snooping, he may have changed his mind.

Traffic was heavy but not gridlocked and within fifteen minutes Lake was on the FDR, headed south. To her left, in the fading light, the East River throbbed with activity-speedboats and sailboats and small “dining” yachts with tourists hanging over the rails. As disturbing as the evening had been so far, she tried to focus on her meeting with Melanie Turnbull. Melanie surely wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize her situation as a mother, and yet she had agreed to talk. Maybe, Lake thought, she would actually come away with something tonight that could help her figure this all out. From there, she’d reach out to Archer.

She crossed the Brooklyn Bridge and drove the few blocks into Dumbo. With its cobbled streets and nineteenth-century warehouses-and the Manhattan skyline as a backdrop across the East River-the area had always seemed to Lake like a cross between old New York and Blade Runner . Using her GPS, she located the restaurant Melanie had suggested. Parking was problematic, and the best she could do was a parking place three blocks north on Water Street.

She stepped out of her car and locked it. It was cooler over here, probably because of the proximity to the East River. Walking south along Water Street, she pulled her jacket tighter. To her right, the waterfront was partially hidden by trees. She glanced at her watch. She wasn’t supposed to meet Melanie for another twenty-five minutes. She turned west instead and made her way closer to the water. There was a small park, its entrance nothing more than the mouth of a narrow path. She began to follow it. Within a few yards the winding path opened onto a large open area. Off to the left, along the East River, was a small, pebble beach, with water lapping gently over the rocks. It looked more like the edge of a lake than a river. To the right were large terraced steps made out of pavement where a dozen people sat, scattered about and enjoying the view under the streetlamps. Lake stared across the water at the glittering island of Manhattan. For a moment she wished she could just pick the kids up from camp and drive away from here forever.

She retraced her steps and turned onto Water again and then walked up Dock to Front Street. The restaurant was like a tavern, with old wooden tables and twinkling lights strung across the windows. She picked a table that gave her a view of the door and ordered a glass of wine.

Once again she replayed the presentation over in her mind. How ridiculous those pads and pencils had been, she thought. No one had taken a single note. She drained the last of her wine. It probably wasn’t smart to have more, she realized, but if she didn’t she’d be in danger of jumping out of her skin, thinking about the clinic. She flagged the waiter down and ordered a second glass of Bordeaux.

This time she sipped slowly, trying to calm herself. She looked up at one point and surveyed the restaurant. When she’d first come in she had noticed a table of five boisterous women clearly celebrating something, but she saw now that they had paid their bill and gone. She glanced down at her watch. It was nine-thirty.

She’d been so consumed by her thoughts that she hadn’t noticed that the time for her appointment had come and gone. With a start she realized the truth: Melanie Turnbull wasn’t coming.

OH GOD, SHE thought, tell me this isn’t happening. After checking with the restaurant’s hostess just to make certain she hadn’t missed a tall blond woman coming in alone, Lake dug her BlackBerry from her purse and called the number Melanie had phoned from. Voice mail. She left a message saying that she understood Melanie might be running late and that she would continue to wait for her-that Melanie should just get to the restaurant whenever she could. But it was obvious what had happened: Melanie had developed cold feet and decided not to come.

Lake ran her hands through her hair. She’d been banking so much on this meeting, believing that she was close to extricating herself from the horrible mess she was in. But she should have known from Melanie’s skittish tone that there was a chance she’d be a no-show. Lake decided to hang around for another twenty minutes just in case Melanie heard her message and changed her mind. But deep down she knew it was hopeless.

“Would you like to see a menu?”

It was the waitress, a pretty girl with an Australian accent. Lake had drunk nearly two glasses of wine without having eaten. Not only was her stomach growling but her head felt light, buzzy. And yet the idea of eating had no appeal. She smiled wanly and shook her head.

As she waited, she calculated what her next move should be. Certainly Archer would be interested in knowing that Melanie had asked for a meeting. That had to be significant. And he’d also be curious about the odd letters Lake had seen on the Turnbull and Kastner charts. Maybe Archer could tip off the police that there might be something fishy at the clinic to force them to take a closer look. But with nothing more than a hysterical woman’s word to go on, they’d never be able to gain access to patient records. Lake’s head began to throb, as if someone were squeezing it. She’d figure this out at home.

At nine-fifty she paid the check and slipped out of the restaurant. As she made her way down Front Street, the dull roaring and clacking of cars above her on the Brooklyn Bridge seemed to echo how agitated she felt inside.

At Dock Street, she turned left and headed down to Water. The block was deserted except for a young couple pulling their car out of a parking space. As enchanting as the area was, there didn’t seem to be any services along its streets-no delis or coffee shops or laundromats-and at this hour pedestrian traffic was nearly nonexistent. She thought she heard a sound behind her-the scuff of a shoe-and she quickly twisted her head around. There was no one there.